An empty satire of memories past,
Empty closet, empty room,
A little note, all she left,
Written with hesitation sealed with a kiss.
It said of a broken and bleeding heart,
In search of love, In search of a friend,
For this in me, she failed to find.
She gave her love and needed so,
But this heart was far from free,
Held in bondage by a secret love.
But this love, far from real,
And this love never so,
It made it hard for me to love,
And never would she fill the void.
She was never in sight, but always at heart,
Seen before, but only in passing.
On the morning train we met,
And when she left she took my heart,
A subtle smile, sweet cherry lips,
A graceful stride my love was gone.
Not her number not her name,
Only memories of her I hold,
She took this heart and held it hostage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem